


Surprising

by geekmama



Series: All Holiday [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 10:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11987733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: The "cake place" is only the first surprise...





	Surprising

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Writer's Choice" prompt: 'Party'
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Birthdays at “the cake place” -- Marcelline’s, a ten minute walk from 221B -- had recently become an established tradition for the small, bemused coterie of persons privileged to call themselves friends of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had still been on the mend from his latest foray into drug addiction when he’d been the first to be honored, polishing off a slice of Triple Chocolate Gateau with an alacrity that had astonished his minders, accustomed as they were to his finicking (or nonexistent) appetite. A few weeks later, Sherlock, John, and Molly had treated Mrs. Hudson on her natal day. She had, as was proper, declined to share her true age, but she had thoroughly enjoyed the Mango and Blackcurrent Mousse she’d chosen from the menu and startled them once again with a few offhand remarks about her unconventional history. Then, about a month after the Sherrinford debacle, it had been Greg Lestrade’s turn (Strawberry Tart) -- a surprise gathering arranged by Sally Donovan. Sherlock and Sally’s interactions on that occasion seemed to indicate they’d more or less buried the hatchet, and if he and Molly had felt a bit awkward, Greg had only been unabashedly thrilled.   

Molly had noticed that Greg’s joyous reaction to the unexpected event had intrigued Sherlock, but she was unaware of the exact extent of his interest and the reason for it until her own birthday rolled around. 

The morning started out in quite an ordinary fashion. She’d somehow failed to ask for the day off, so she’d actually had to work, and it turned out to be exceptionally busy. By the time her shift was ending, she was so tired that she almost decided to text Sherlock and beg off coming to Marcelline’s at all. He would understand. He was, after all, a great part of the reason for her weariness, having kept her up half the night before _again_ in the most delightfully devastating fashion. 

This had happened all too often in the several weeks since the events following Meena’s Hen Night, events that had finally altered her relationship with Sherlock in the best possible way, _a true testament to the efficacy of drunkenness and forcible debauchery_ as he’d later observed with a cheeky glint in his eye. She could hardly argue with that, or with his apparent determination to make up for lost time. His zeal was admirable, if exhausting, and since his bent for observation, deduction, and scientific inquiry were leavened with a wonderfully tender regard, she hesitated to voice even the mildest complaint. However, it was becoming obvious to her that a regimen of love-making interspersed with light dozing until three or four (or five) in the morning would not do, at least not on work nights. 

She changed her mind about texting him, though. Once she left Barts, got outside in the rain-washed air of that early spring evening, she felt a great deal better. A short ride on the Tube, an easy walk through the familiar Marylebone streets, and she entered Marcelline’s with a smile of pleasant anticipation. 

And then a roar of “Surprise!” echoed through the cake-scented air, and suddenly she really _was_ wide awake. 

It was the biggest gathering yet: John and Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson, with Mr. Chatterjee hovering near; Greg Lestrade with Donovan, Anderson, and Hopkins; Meena and her new husband; and several colleagues from Barts, including Mike Stamford, his wife, and the three oldest of their five children. 

Sherlock was the first to come toward her, saying,, “I tried to get Mycroft to come, too, but Alicia is out of town at present and seemed unable to guilt him into it via text.” 

She laughed, saw that he was holding out his hands and took them in hers. “You did this?”

“Do you like it?” 

She wanted to leap up, wrap her arms about his neck and snog him senseless, but she only had time to squeeze his hands tight and reply, “ _Yes!_ ” before they were surrounded and she had to let him go to turn and greet everyone else.

 

*

 

“I’ve never had a surprise party before,” she said to him later as they walked along, her hand tucked in his arm. They were headed over to Angelo’s, just the two of them now, looking forward to a light post-cake supper. 

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Sherlock said with a smile. 

“It was such an inspiration to invite Mike’s children. They were adorable when they took Rosie under their collective wing.” 

“Mmm. They didn’t seem to mind being relegated to the Children’s Table. I always hated that, when I was growing up, but I can certainly see the advantages of it as an adult.” 

“Oh, yes. And eating dessert first, that’s another advantage. That lovely little salad with the shrimp that Angelo makes will be perfect to follow. And it was so kind of Mrs. Hudson to offer to take my gifts back to Baker Street so we could walk to Angelo’s. Everyone was too generous!” Molly sighed happily, remembering the beautiful silk scarf she’d received from Mrs. Hudson, Mike and Betty’s Amazon gift card, the NSY crowd’s big tin of Milk Caramel Praline Sea Salt Truffles from London’s most prestigious chocolatier, Charbonnel et Walker, and the pretty new jumper from John and Rosie (“Another fruit-based cardigan?” Sherlock had muttered, to which Molly had replied, “Hush, you! I _love_ it!”). 

But now Sherlock had fallen oddly quiet, and presently Molly looked up at him. 

He glanced down at her, not quite smiling, then looked away again.  But then he said, “I… I have a gift for you, too.” 

“Oh! I thought the party itself was your gift!” He’d arranged for everything, reserving the whole shop and paying for everyone’s choice of cake and other refreshments at what she knew must have been considerable expense. 

“Well, that. But I have something else for you.” He slowed, stopped, looked undecided for a moment, then pulled her over to the entrance to an alley -- a fairly clean, respectable one, running between Petersham’s Books and the back of a gourmet food shop. There were shadows, as it was growing dark -- a few stars could already be seen between breaks in the clouds -- but there was a light by the back porch of the food shop that cast a pleasant golden glow. 

Still: an alley! “Can’t this wait until we arrive at Angelo’s?” she asked as he reached into an inner pocket of his coat. 

“No,” he said firmly, though it was obvious to her that he was tense, troubled. “Open it now. I… I’m not certain… well… here.” 

And he drew out a small, flat, brightly wrapped parcel. 

She did not take it at once. The wrapping was a shiny red, and it was tied with silky black yarn, and there was a tag. 

It looked exactly like her gift to him on that terrible Christmas Eve so many years before. 

She looked up at him, suddenly wary. But his lips were set in a firm line, and his eyes were… afraid. This was no teasing joke, then. There was some serious intent behind it. 

She steadied herself, and solemnly took the box, happy to see that her hand did not tremble. 

The tag read, as she’d known it would, 

 

 **_Dearest Molly  
_** **_Love, Sherlock x x x_ **

 

Her lip quivered, very slightly. 

“Open it,” he said, his voice intense. 

She slipped the silken tie off the corners and carefully loosened the paper from around the box. He took the wrappings from her and shoved them in his pocket, and she found herself holding her breath as she drew the lid off and looked inside. Two narrow envelopes lay there. The kind that held tickets. 

Her Christmas gift to Sherlock on that long ago night had held only one envelope: two tickets for the London Philharmonic, with Itzhak Perlman performing Vivaldi. 

Memories swirled through her head, old pain once again brought to the fore: climbing the stairs to 221B to deliver some body part to him and for the first time hearing him play his violin; gathering her courage to try once more to make an impression on him, allow him to see what he meant to her, hoping he would understand that it was no infatuation (well it was, but it wasn’t _only_ that); agonizing over what to wear, and then throwing caution to the winds entirely with that black dress, heels that were too high, earrings that she’d thought festive but realized later were simply ridiculous. Her hair. Her make-up. God, she had tried so hard… 

She bit her lip, her eyes stinging. Picked up one of the envelopes and drew out the tickets… so many… good heavens… 

“What… is this the whole season?” she gasped, looking up at him. 

“Molly, please don’t cry,” he said softly. 

She forced a laugh, and sniffed, blinking back tears. “No. Sorry. But Sherlock--” 

“Eleven performances. For you, and for… whomever you like.” 

She pursed her lips. “For you, too, then, obviously.” 

He smiled just a little, but then grew solemn again. “I know my apology that night was not enough. I… I didn’t even open your gift until days after Christmas, and then… did you really have to work the night of the concert?” 

She flushed a little. “I had Mike rearrange the schedule. On the off-chance you’d ask me… and you did! But… I couldn’t bear it.” She sniffed again, and bit her lip. 

“Molly!” he whispered, and gathered her against him. 

She hugged him fiercely. Thinking how very far they’d both come since that night. 

And then the box slipped from her fingers. 

“Oh! Sherlock, I’ve dropped them! Let me go!” 

He laughed, releasing her, and together they bent and picked up the tickets, many of which had come out of the too-stuffed envelopes. 

Finally she stood up and carefully counted them. “I think I have them all. Twenty-two?” 

“Yes. Mostly symphonies. I think you’ll enjoy them.” 

“I know I will. Did… did you enjoy the one I gave you? Was Itzhak Perlman brilliant?” 

“According to all reports. I… er… gave the tickets to Mrs. Hudson and she took Mr. Chatterjee.” 

“Oh, Sherlock!” she exclaimed, frowning. 

“Molly, how could I go and enjoy it after… everything. If you had been willing to go…” 

“So it’s _my_ fault!” But she almost laughed. 

He smiled crookedly. “You’ll get some good use out of that black dress, now.” 

She frowned again, with narrowed eyes. “I gave it to charity at the first opportunity.” 

“Oh.” He hesitated, then blurted, “You did look lovely--” 

“Sherlock!” 

“--except for the earrings, they were a bit much.” 

She sighed, shaking her head, suppressing a chuckle.

He said, suddenly inspired, “I could take you shopping!” 

“No!” 

“No?” 

“Well, maybe,” she conceded. “I have a couple of dresses that would work, but I can’t wear the same things to eleven performances -- not with the kind of attention you get from the media. But give me a chance. I may surprise you.” 

And at that, he finally grinned and pulled her close again. “You’ve _always_ surprised me, Molly Hooper,” he said. “In the best possible ways.” And he kissed her.

 

~.~


End file.
